‘You don’t know what my life’s like,’ Melissa says in an uncharacteristically measured, stony voice now. ‘You have no idea.’
This is it, I think. This is the moment when I could apologise and try to make it right again. That’s what I should do. That’s what a normal person would do. But I feel punchy with fear and adrenaline. People don’t speak to me like this as an adult. No one has spoken to me like this since … well, since Melissa. At home. The night I left.
So instead of apologising, I come out swinging.
‘Are you joking? You barely live in the real world – post 1950s, anyway. I mean, who doesn’t have a smartphone? Or Wi-Fi? Or pyramid-tossing-teabags?! It’s like you’re just doing it for the attention! You’re a total drama queen! Always have been!’
‘Well, you’re cold and stuck up,’ she chokes back, holding a hand to her jaw in what I know is an attempt to nurse her aching wisdom tooth that she still hasn’t had seen to.
‘Well,’ I start, blazing like wildfire now, ‘I’d rather that than emotionally incontinent! Take a look in the mirror and sort yourself out before you start on me! And maybe invest in an electric toothbrush! You big … baby!’
With this, Melissa skids her chair back and storms out of the room with an impressive, room-shaking door-slam.
‘See what I mean?’ I address the table of thunderstruck remaining Vikings. ‘No regard at all for the fact that there are children sleeping and a man currently in bed with food poi—’ I stop myself in case this acts as an admission of guilt. ‘Poisoning’ is a strong word, I reason. I fear I’m losing my audience anyway without bringing up berry-gate again, so I rephrase ‘—a very sick man,’ I offer, instead.
See, I’m not cold and heartless, am I? I want to shake each of them in turn and demand confirmation: I’m practical. I’m a good person to have on side. I’m a good person, full stop. Aren’t I?
The door bangs again. It’s Melissa.
‘I haven’t calmed down – I just came back for my sex-fleece,’ she announces, seizing the newly laundered maroon monstrosity from the back of her chair and flinging it around her shoulders, like a poor woman’s superhero cape. As an afterthought, she picks up her half empty bottle of beer to take with her, before stomping out once more.
Eight
‘Egg? I had you down for an egg. Want one?’ Tricia is asking as I rub sleep from my eyes. She’s wearing her hair in a 1960s’ film-star turban again with a slotted spoon in one hand and what looks a lot like a Bloody Mary in the other, but I’m so relieved that she’s still speaking to me, I keep all observations to myself.
‘Mmm, thanks,’ I reply sheepishly.
My limbs feel like lead and everything aches; whether through exertion, alcohol, or a combination of the two, I can’t be sure. Though the pounding head and tacky mouth are a testament to the fact that ‘beer’ may have played a significant part.
Margot is stretching her quads against the wall and appears run-fresh, which only makes me feel less ‘fresh’. Inge has a child clamped to each leg and one hanging on for dear life around her neck, piggybacking a ride. She picks up the lamb in one hand and a butter dish with the other, depositing the latter on the table before shaking off her progeny and telling them to help with breakfast. They obey, dutifully, without a murmur of dissent, while she gives the lamb its bottle.
The psychology of overachievers. I try turning the phrase over in my mind, but find the effort hurts, so instead I slump in a chair and wait gratefully for my egg.
‘Laid this morning!’ Margot beams. ‘I collected them, didn’t I?’ She looks to Inge for approval but gets nothing. So she adds, ‘Still steaming, they were!’
If I’m honest, the image of my soft-boiled squeezing out of the intimate area of a scratchy chicken just an hour or so earlier puts me off slightly. Stop. Being. A. Wuss, I scold myself for my squeamishness and, unwilling to lose face in front of either Margot or Inge, smile and crack the shell. As quietly as possible. The candles have already been lit – a while ago if their current height is anything to go by – and I marvel that Vikings seem incapable of getting through a single mealtime/coffee break/opportunity for a sit down without a naked flame nearby.
You’d think electricity had never been invented …
‘Do you always breakfast by candlelight?’ I ask Inge.
‘Yes,’ she tells me plainly, before adding, ‘have you heard of hygge?’
‘Hasn’t everyone by now?’ I mean to say this in my head but can tell by Inge’s amused expression that I’ve said it out loud.
‘It’s not just about candles, but they’re a good start,’ she says. ‘The rest, you have to feel. You will, by the time the week’s through.’
Despite my splitting headache, somehow, I believe her.
A child (Villum, is it?) thumps a brick of rye bread down in front of me along with a large, serrated knife. Because knives and children are evidently an acceptable Viking combination, I’ve learned. I saw through the block for about five minutes before a slice is liberated, then spend another eternity axing it into soldiers before I can dip it into the fire-coloured yolk. But the taste is worth it and I wolf the lot.
Rye bread is barely even a carb, I tell myself: it’s good for me … probably.
‘How’s Magnus this morning?’ I manage through a claggy mouthful.
‘Oh, you know … Magnus-y,’ Inge replies. ‘A couple more rounds of cumin juice and he’ll be fine.’ I nod.
‘And … where’s Melissa?’ The top bunk was empty this morning when I finally plucked up the courage to look. I’d assumed she was already up, like everyone else. Like I am, normally, I think, with a hint of shame tinged with rebellion: Screw you, ‘old me’! The new Alice drinks beer and sleeps in until … I consult the kitchen clock. Oh, it’s still only 7.15am. Rock and indeed roll.
‘Melissa?’ Tricia looks up. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No?’
‘Neither do we!’ Margot does a few lunges to prolong her post-run flush. She looks hellishly beautiful and a little too happy to be involved in the unfolding drama.
‘I didn’t hear her come back last night,’ Inge confirms, as a kernel of dread lodges itself inside me.
Shit …
Melissa had been angry when she left but I had presumed she’d cool off after a few minutes. Literally, if the post-dusk temperatures of the last few days are anything to go by. I hope she hasn’t done anything daft, I think. Because my sister has form in this area.
There was a night just before her mock GCSEs when Melissa was in self-destruct mode and disappeared with two litres of Dad’s home-brew cider disguised in a Fanta bottle. I had to scour the local parks, dodging tramps and other teenage drunks (we grew up in a town dedicated to underage drinking) until I found her sobbing under a slide in the kids’ playground. I dragged her home and made her drink a pint of water before putting her to bed, quietly so Dad wouldn’t notice she’d been gone. As if he needed anything else to worry about!
It occurs to me now that I never asked Melissa why she was crying. I’d assumed it was the pressure of exams. But now I’m not so sure. Or the time she played truant from school and I had to go and see the headmaster and apologise. As if Dad needed the extra stress!
I did some sleuth work (aka diary reading – a course of action that was, I felt certain, entirely justified and to my credit). I found out she was volunteering at a donkey sanctuary instead of doing double Geography, so I threatened to take away her Charles and Di commemorative cup and saucer unless she improved her attendance record. A ploy that worked, for a while.
But I’ve never had to deal with her impromptu excursions in a foreign country before. Or in front of strangers. And her disappearances have never *whispers it* been my fault up until now … have they?
‘I thought maybe she’d gone for a run, like me,’ Margot goes on, ‘but then, that was hours ago. You know what they say, “The early bird catches the worm”.’
The early bird can bog off, I think,
unkindly.
‘So if Melissa’s still out running, well … she’s putting me to shame!’
We both know that this is unlikely. I manage a tight smile and say nothing, allowing myself an eye roll in Tricia’s direction while Margot busies herself with a hamstring stretch.
‘Your sister will be totally safe here,’ Inge assures me, resting an arm on my shoulder. Her long hair is still damp from the shower and she smells of clean clothes and hope. ‘I once lost Mette for a whole day when we first moved.’
I should be reassured by this, but I’m not.
Just as we’re preparing to leave the house for day five’s ‘Introduction to Boatbuilding’, the door swings open like a saloon in a Western and Melissa stands there – the pink morning sky giving her a rosy glow. Her hair is dishevelled, accessorised with what looks a lot like straw. Her trousers are rolled up unevenly, one a mere turn-up and the other suggesting she’s selling drugs of some description. And her maroon sex fleece is flung jauntily over one shoulder. But she looks … radiant.
If I didn’t know better I’d think she HAD been on a run, or … or something else …
‘Right then, are we off?’ is all she says, directing her question at Inge.
‘Don’t you want breakfast?’ She gestures at the table, still laden with condiments, buns and the rye bread that Freja is now tunnelling into with bare, chubby fists. Viking skills, I think.
‘No, thanks.’
‘You don’t want breakfast?’ Even Tricia’s mouth drops at this.
‘There are cinnamon buns!’ I protest. ‘You love cinnamon buns!’
‘I’ll be fine.’ She shoots me a lemon-sucking look that silences and scares me simultaneously.
Things must be bad, I deduce.
‘Listen,’ I start, hurrying towards the door to catch a moment with Melissa on her own, ‘I’m sorry. About last night, I mean …’
But she blanks me. She actually blanks me! I can’t quite believe it. Are we tweenagers again? Perhaps she didn’t hear. ‘I’m sorry we fought,’ I try again. If that’s what we did …
‘You’re sorry we fought?’ She stops now and looks at me.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not sorry about what you said?’ Her mouth turns slack.
Ah … now … what was that, exactly? I run a furry tongue around my still-furry-despite-ten-minutes-of-sustained-brushing teeth. ‘We probably both said things we regret—’ I say, but am cut off.
‘Forget it.’ Melissa shakes her head and turns away from me to begin her tramp towards the coast to where the boat yard is located.
I stand on the threshold, feeling helpless, and watch her leave. It’s rained again overnight and trees twinkle with droplets of water in the morning sun. The place smells fresh – restorative, even. And not at all how I remember it from yesterday’s molten metal-fest and livestock wrangling.
It’ll all be OK, I think, taking in the fortifying view. Won’t it?
I don’t know who I’m asking any more.
‘You’re still worried.’ Inge is packing a picnic hamper – or rather, a picnic grey-hessian-sack. She follows my gaze to the image of Melissa trudging across fields, towards the sea, with Tricia now trotting to catch up with her. My closest ally and my sister, I think. Great …
‘It’ll be good for you to keep active today,’ Inge asserts, tipping a bowl full of apples into her bag.
‘Ye-es,’ I say in a voice that comes out much smaller than intended. I have another go and try to sound upbeat. ‘I like to keep busy …’
‘Not “busy”,’ Inge corrects me. ‘Active.’
‘There’s a difference?’
‘You’ll see,’ she says, then noticing that my neck is beginning to colour and that my eyes are watering up, she relents and gives me a little more to go on. ‘When you were learning a new skill – working with your hands over the last couple of days, you weren’t thinking about home or how much you miss your kids so much, right?’
‘Right … ?’
‘You had no time for the – how do you say – winding up of your mind?’
‘Whirring?’ Margot offers, in earshot now.
Sodding Margot …
‘Sure.’ Inge shrugs as though such pedantry is missing the point. ‘So, the thing to remember today about boatbuilding—’ she says as she swings Villum up onto her back and deposits Freja in her pram, leaving Mette to trip alongside us ‘—is that it’s not about the boatbuilding.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t mean to be obtuse, but I’m not sure I get it. ‘If it’s not about the boat, then, err, what is it about?’
‘Doing something. Anything.’ Inge sounds as close to exasperated as I expect she’s ever likely to get (i.e. still preternaturally high on the patience scale in my book). ‘You’ve heard of walking therapy?’ she goes on. I haven’t.
‘Yes,’ I lie, unwilling to lose face.
‘And there’s dance therapy, even horse therapy …’
WTF? I try to process this. Melissa was RIGHT? With her mad idea about painting on ponies?! I can just imagine her cracking her knuckles in triumph when she hears of this vindication …
‘Horse therapy?’ I ask Inge, tentatively.
‘Yes – you can tell a lot about someone by the way they react to a horse.’
Okay, so we’re not painting on ponies …
‘Animal therapy a technique we use in psychology a lot,’ she says.
‘Is that … ? Are we … ?’ I try to dismiss the idea before it can even form in my mind, but when Inge is side-tracked by one of the children needing a wee, Margot looks at me with her big old cat-eyes and I wonder whether she’s thinking what I’m thinking. So I ask, ‘Is Inge psychologist-ing us?’
Margot begins to blush and doesn’t even correct my poor grammar. I’ve clearly struck a nerve.
‘I think she might be …’ she says.
I flatter myself for a millisecond that perhaps I’m under scrutiny as a case study for her PhD thesis but then I note that Margot has now turned practically purple. If anyone’s being observed as an overachiever, it’s sodding Margot, I rationalise. This results in mixed emotions. Obviously, I’m glad not to be under the spotlight. Obviously. Although …
Wasn’t I a high achiever once, too? Dentistry conference panel discussions aside? I’ve got a feeling I’ve been so busy and tired over the past ten years that I wouldn’t have been able to remember either way. But Margot is visibly rattled.
‘Is that why you don’t mind teaching us?’ Margot asks Inge anxiously when she’s back in view, children fully relieved. ‘The rest of the Viking skills, I mean?’ Margot goes on.
‘What gave you that idea?’ Inge replies, her face betraying nothing. ‘I want to you to experience Viking culture,’ she says, simply. ‘Just like Magnus does, or at least, he will once he’s finished off-gassing …’ Here we wrinkle our noses collectively and agree Never To Speak Again of the alarming smells that have been emanating from the master bedroom’s en suite of late.
‘How is Magnus doing?’ I ask tentatively.
‘Anyway, as I was saying—’ she’s keen to move us on ‘—there’s also a value in focusing on something, in switching off the “whirring” and using your hands. Everyone needs to know how to be the captain of their own ship. And if you know how to sail, you’re not afraid of the storms.’
God, she’s good, I think, she’s boat metaphor-ing us into learning something!
‘You become aware of your strengths and weaknesses,’ Inge goes on, ‘of the factors that can be controlled and those that are beyond your control. Like water. And winds.’ At this she sets off, with Freja in her tank-pram, Villum on her back and Mette struggling to keep up. She’s going at such a clip that even Margot and I have to skip slightly every few paces, keen not to miss any of this prize Völva intel.
‘Sometimes you can be floating in one place, bobbing on the waves,’ Inge continues, and I notice Mette rolling
her eyes, as though it’s a talk she’s been subjected to before, in duplicate languages. ‘Sometimes all you can see is a leaking boat – taking on water. Sometimes you’ll be afraid that your boat won’t withstand stormy weather.’ Here Inge looks pointedly at me.
Jesus – if even handle-it-all Inge thinks I’m in stormy weather, perhaps my life really is car-crash-shit …
I wonder how much further she can stretch the boat metaphor.
‘You need to question: what aspect of my boat has the highest priority at the moment?’
Oh: still going …
‘You have to consider the options,’ Inge continues. ‘Like, what do I want my boat to look like? What kind of destination do I want to reach with my boat? In a boat – as in life – sometimes the waves will wash over you and you’ll get wet feet. And when you’ve got wet feet, you need to start bailing.’
‘Right …’ I’m not sure I buy it all, but part of me wishes I’d been taking notes. Margot is also frowning, trying to absorb all the new ideas.
‘Magnus never mentioned any of this …’ she says now.
‘Well, no.’ Inge sighs. ‘For Magnus, it pretty much is all about the boat. He likes the exertion. Plus it’s hot work so he gets to take his top off a lot. Which, as you may have noticed, he loves to do. Also, I think he might be addicted to tar fumes …’ She frowns.
I make a mental note not to mention the Sharpie-sniffing and shoot Margot my best ‘drop it!’ look to encourage her to do the same. She nods, knowingly.
Have I just built a rapport with my arch cat-enemy? Arch-cat-emy, if you will? I feel strangely pleased – as though I can’t possibly be such a terrible person, after all. Even if Tricia has also abandoned me. There’s a skip in my walk the rest of the way across the stunning vista, with me occasionally pausing to take pity on Mette and give her a piggyback when I think her mother’s too far ahead to notice (‘Viking children walk,’ Inge tells us of the five-kilometre hike she’s currently subjecting her daughter to).
Gone Viking Page 20